Debut and Finale
by fearwrites
Summary: The events on the stage of Don Juan Triumphant take a very different turn. ALW AU. E/C, rated T for mentions and non-explicit descriptions of blood and death.


Christine – playing Aminta – gasped. She had gone through her directions perfectly, though something in her gut had cried out when her duet with Don Juan had begun. It all came down to the moment she embraced him as she had been instructed to do, pressing her face to his hidden one. There it was, a hard material she had not felt during rehearsals; how it was that no one realized Piangi was no longer the actor on-stage with her escaped all reason. Her voice faltered and she did what first came to mind, to run, but he was swift and caught her wrists, falling back to center stage with her in tow.

She broke free just as the last two lines of the duet came up, but instead of escaping again she sang them in a haze, just before reaching up and pushing the cloak off as the song ended. Yes, it was he, her teacher, and she put her hands to her face. He, in turn, sucked in a breath, moving back in disbelief as he was exposed to everyone in the Opera House. Christine heard heavy steps all around her as the guards guarding the stage came in, all of their guns in their hands. The Phantom turned, moving towards the off-stage, but he was surrounded and Christine didn't dare take a step. The audience whispered amongst themselves in hushed voices, finally realizing this was not part of the show they had come to see. He looked at her briefly with a look she couldn't understand, before going to her still figure. He held his own ring in his hand, dragging the heavy black costume with him, and her features softened as she realized he was singing – quietly, as she was the only one who could hear. Then they were face to face.

Christine glanced behind him nervously. Raoul's guards were closing in; was she only a distraction, so they could apprehend him? The Phantom was looking at her so kindly, but then he grabbed her hand in a sharp movement, and it made her flinch.

There was a loud bang and many, horrible screams. Those sitting in the audience, simply looking, all began to scramble out as the onyx ring hit the floor in front of her. The hand not holding hers approached the dark material of the cloak gingerly, pressing it. The masked man glanced down at the same time she did – his hand was tinted with scarlet, the scent of gunpowder filled her senses, and she paled at the darker shade of black now forming on her former teacher's torso.

"No!" She cried, realizing what had happened. All of her fear of the Phantom left her body as she trembled, looking down and into the pit. The noise of the gun as it clattered to the floor, falling from the shocked guard's hand, brought her back to reality. She could faintly hear Raoul's yells as he stood next to the managers in the wings.

"What did you _do_?"

The Phantom made to move away, clutching his side, but he doubled over in a strike of pain and fell to his knees. She ran to him, making everyone around her tense, with Raoul loudly protesting and even coming onto the stage to stop her, but she ignored them all.

"A doctor! Please, he needs a doctor!" She managed, kneeling with him. Oh, God, what was she supposed to do? Christine stilled him as he attempted to move again at the approaching of steps. It was a policeman, and the man with her practically snarled before a pained grunt escaped him. She gave him a desperate look, but the other man simply backed away again.

"Christine…"

"I am here, _maestro_ , hush." Her hands added pressure to the wound as he held it. Tears filled her eyes when she looked around again, feeling helpless when she realized no one had made to fetch the help he needed. Her mouth opened to plead with them again, but she was silenced by a single word.

"Don't," he rasped out. "It is far too severe to be treated – the bullet came from a lethal angle."

"But, _maestro –"_

"I am not your tutor anymore, am I? Not an Angel, either." The emphasis of his mortality came in the form of a cough and the drops of blood that followed it.

"What are you, then? You are no ghost."

"Erik. I am Erik." She suddenly felt her accumulated tears trail down her face. He did his best to chuckle, but winced mid-phrase. "No, don't cry. I hate… to see you cry because of me."

"I don't know what to do, Erik," she replied. Her voice became choked the moment she said his name out loud. "There has to be something, anything!" She fisted handfuls of his cloak, and he touched her face lightly. Breathing had now become labored for him.

"Forgive me. Forgive me for all the ways I've wronged you, Christine." He was now crying with her. "Say you will."

"I do," she sobbed. "I forgive you, Erik." She truly did; it didn't matter anymore. He hummed weakly in response and she embraced him, once again trembling as she whimpered, his head nestled at the crook of her neck.

"Stay with me, I am begging you."  
"I am not leaving," she promised. She softly ran her hand through his hair – though she suspected they were not his real locks – in an attempt to comfort him. Christine shifted gently, so now his head was atop her lap, pillowed by her skirts as she knelt. She went to hold his bloodied right hand in her own as her free one continued her tender ministrations and he held his wounded side. They were close enough to feel one another's breaths; hers shaking but steady, his small and troubled. Everything was so quiet she could have thought they had been left alone, but she broke the silence with beautiful humming she managed out from her knotted throat. It was an aria he himself had written, one he had gifted her along with her score of _Don Juan_ , and he had never heard a sweeter sound. It was a melody only the two of them had ever known.

"Christine," he breathed out again. After a second, the stained hand she held went lax as the rest of his body did as it slipped from her grasp. The tiny thud of it dropping to the ground seemed to echo through the whole stage as she suddenly stopped singing. She stilled and gazed at the side of his face not hidden by her dress – his uncovered one – only to find closed eyes and a relaxed countenance. Had he…

There was no longer a rise-and-fall to his shoulders. He was gone.

She leaned down and buried her face in his hair, her left hand moving back to where she had stroked him as he bled out. She had a tight grip on the material covering his shoulder – then she cried in earnest, sorrow filling her soul and dripping out through her heavily silent stream of tears. She stared ahead at nothing in particular, soundless and unmoving.

Christine stayed there for a long time until Raoul finally had the heart to get near, and even then she hugged the lifeless man fiercely, with a protectiveness he would never understand. He didn't dare say a word; all he did was place a hand on her shoulder as he kneeled beside her, but she immediately shook it off.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she gritted out. "You said they were only here to protect me, Raoul, but look at what _your men_ have done. You promised me that no one would be harmed."

Now he had been torn away from her and she was alone with the music once more. The Vicomte's head bowed in shame and all she could do was weep.

 **A/N: Some months ago I fell in love with a piece of art by stanislava-jurievna-k and decided to write a one-shot based on it. After getting the artist's permission, I did, and now I present it to you guys after many weeks of it just gathering dust in one of my notebooks. For anyone that follows me on tumblr, yes, this is the major angst I asked if anyone was in the mood for. Also on my tumblr will be the link to the the artist's original post so you can all see the inspiration behind this and reblog/like it because it is stunning and very emotional. Thanks for reading! -SZ.**


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